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February 21, 2005

"What do you say about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring rain on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison scum right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation."

February 19, 2005

“It was an uncertain spring. The weather, perpetually changing, sent clouds of blue and purple flying over the land."
--Virginia Woolfe, ‘The Years’

The clouds have been dropping buckets in LA. Not your average southern California drizzle, but real juicy drops coming down in sheets from ominous slate colored skies. Thunder, lightening and other weatherous wonder. Despite the precipitation, I have been shooting madly, field testing my newest acquisition, a lovely 50mm lens that is as sharp as a pin. Photography is so comforting to me, something that I have done since childhood. There is only one thing that I have done longer, and that is acting.

The other night, I went over to my friend David’s house. He has been working hard on the creation of an animated TV show. He had me read for him. Even though his show is in the baby stages, it is clear that he has the determination to see it become reality. His roommate is a talented cartoonist and David is a great writer and actor. As we read together, I felt alive for the first time in a long time. Doing voice overs is something that I have done since Jimmy Carter was in office. It feels easy. Fun. Right. It feels like home.

My SAG card came today. With the help of a dear friend, I paid my long over dues and the card has now taken up its old resting place within my wallet. When I read MEMBER SINCE 1981 on the card next to my name, I was filled with the response-ability of a man set ablaze with purpose. I intend to put it to good use. I intend to put me to good use.

For the longest time, I have been out of the loop. I have not been actively participating in my own life. Deep sadness and loss has manifested as chronic lethargy and gross disinterest in things that I once adored. Depression has become a cloak that I wear, but the cloak is wearing thin at the seams. Genuine sadness and deep-seated grief is beginning to show through and awaken me from the slumber of repression.

Thank God.

As the sadness peeks through and tiny tears begin to emerge, the real me is coming back to the surface like a submerged diver kicking like mad to gasp for air.

The clouds of doubt are parting, and the son is coming out. Slowly, surely, I am beginning to get a clear picture of what I am here to do.

I am here to live out loud.

I am an artist.

A dreamer.

A Donavan.

A Freberg.

So I invite you, dear reader, to watch, as I become Dr. Frankenstein and throw the switches on my dreams.